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Tuesday, October 11, 2005

It seems I have reached the ceiling and no use of me for the goal we have followed so far. I had realized that for quite a while, but was working under a self-applied coercion. Now I have to lay down my arm and stop losing myself in a project that has reached its edges and would not move even for an inch anymore with me in it. However, the yacht is done and is still moving with our collective enormous efforts. I am certain it would keep moving without me too. So, it’s time to move on for me, I suppose. Have you ever seen the boiling pot of patience overflowing?

My friends, my dearest friends, would be annoyed by this decision, I know. Nevertheless I believe in their comprehension and I will love them dearly as ever regardless to my whereabouts. I’ve experienced both the sweetest and the bitterest moments of my professional life with them. I have shared my dreams and reality with them. We have so many things in common now and it will not evaporate without a trace indeed.

What I’m not certain about is the direction I am going to move towards now. I need a good rest after this hurricane and I ought to restore my professional and private personality before doing anything else. In other words, I need to lick my wounds and heal them in solitude before heading to a new battle ground. Hopefully the gap of uncertainty would turn into a necessary period of recovery.

However, the triumphant voyage of the vessel I am leaving now is still my pink dream. For it is as dear to me as a child of my own. And I feel as torn apart as a father leaving his offspring or a lover leaving his beloved. But I am absolutely certain that other parents of the child, my dearest counterparts, will still look after it and there won’t be any need for my custody. Therefore, I will be looking forward to hearing about more successes of our brilliant child.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Trying to catch up with ruthless days and nights that are rushing towards eternity irreversibly with a grey brush to paint our heads. Memories are piling up in my box and squeezing it so that you can see their traces. But since a while ago it seems that we are living the same year over and over again. Same names and same upheavals are filling up our being. Same pictures of cigarette-like twin towers and smoked tube stations with more details on the war of “good” and “evil”. But the loudest explosion in this lot to me was Robert Fisk’s “Finding Osama”. The Independent correspondent has happened to be the only Western journalist to penetrate al-Qa’ida’s inner sanctum and have several chats with the world’s most wanted man. He has survived some awesome moments like Bin Laden asking him: “Mr Robert, one of our brothers had a dream. He dreamed that you came to us one day on a horse, that you had a beard and that you were a spiritual person. You wore a robe like us. This means you are a true Muslim”. R. Fisk admits that it was terrifying. However, he dared to tell that he was not a Muslim. He was just a journalist and his job was to tell the truth. Osama’s withdrawal from his proposal sounded sickeningly diplomatic too: “If you tell the truth, that means you are a good Muslim”. You could imagine that this blood-thirsty creature had never lied throughout his life or any of his followers or big enemies. In reality their jihads and crusades are lie-coated entirely.

Another passage from Robert’s book: “I said to Bin Laden that Afghanistan was the only country left to him after his exile in Sudan. He agreed. “The safest place in the world for me is Afghanistan.” It was the only place, I repeated, in which he could campaign against the Saudi government. Bin Laden and several of his Arab fighters burst into laughter. “There are other places”, he replied. Did he mean Tajikistan? I asked. Or Uzbekistan? Kazakhstan? “There are several places where we have friends and close brothers – we can find refuge and safety in them”. I told Bin Laden he was already a hunted man. “Danger is a part of our life”, he snapped back”.

To me it was a bit surprising that Tajikistan was the first country to come into Robert’s mind as Osama’s second haven.

Osama in 1997 explains how much he detests Saddam Hussein, while “Saddam’s support for Bin Laden” was one of Bush’s justifications for attacking on Iraq.

That was something I added to my last days’ memorable moments.

There is something else to remember as well, of course. My baby has made a favour for me that turned up as a big surprise to me. My short story about Hushyar, the lovely dog of my Dad, has been published. I had completely forgotten that she had taken a copy of it with herself back to Dushanbe. That was a very pleasant moment indeed.

I'm on Lonely Street age nearly three,Recently Mama's cryin all the time is it because of me?Or my younger sister, even Dad was weeping when he kissed her,Face all puffy like a blister, cryin' like he missed her,Since we moved away from the house where we use ta play,They say I'll understand one day, but I doubt it, Mama never say nothin' about it,How'd it get to be so crowded,I found it a strain, everywhere I look I see pain,And I can't escape the feelin', maybe I'm to blame,So I strain to listen, prayin' for a decision, wishing' they were kissin'This feels like extradition or exile, Mama finds it hard to smile,So I make pretend cups of coffe in her favourite style,She says child I'm working so there's nothing you lack,Bus she know I want my Dad, I want my family back.

I'm on Lonely Street, age forty-threeCouldn't gauge when tot quit so my wife quit meTook offence, took the kids, I wish that was the endBut before she took her leave she took care of my best friendWorkin' all the hours God send was not the tacticY'see cuz after ten years I'm left with jackshitWanted to make the cash Quik so I useta work real lateBad sex, My woman's vex, even if I stay awakeAnd if I'm honest, I had a little cake at the officeI was eatin' We'd do our cheatin over coffees, makin' tea for the bossesMakin free with me and I agree I got sleazy too easilyBut I'm forty-three, this doesn't usually happen to meNow I'm lonely, I wonder what my son's doing todaySuddenly I'm blinkin' like the screen on my computer display and I'm drinkin'Concerned about what's down the track if I don't get my family back

I'm on Lonely Street, number fifty-threeBoarded up properly, I'll probably get pulled downLitter all around inside there's no sound and no lightBut yo it gets busy at night, people creppin'Derelicts sneakin' to fix, speakin'On the way my timbers creaking', roof leakin'And bricks comin' loose, knee high in refuseBut even though I'm a slum I'm still of some useThere was a time when my walls were decoratedAnd under my roof children were educatedBut now paint's faded, windows are all smashedA crash in the economy robbed me of my family And no strategycombats negative equitiy so that's it. Like violence it's drasticI'm freaking', and seekin' to be more than just a house of cracksomebody bring my family back